


The Governor, The Cat

by CheapNightmares



Series: Sex, Death, Zombies [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: M/M, Other, TW: Blood, TW: Stabbing, TW: Violence, charley harris (rotttnapple on Tumblr), charley really be out there hanging out with men like this, just some casual cat-like relationship, original Governor interpretation by Gcverncr on tumblr, somewhat platonic, tw: abuse, tw: beating, tw: heads in tanks, tw: mental illness, tw: murder, tw: sex mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:48:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheapNightmares/pseuds/CheapNightmares
Summary: The Governor enjoys the companionship of the odd man that has quietly inserted himself into his life.
Relationships: The Governor / Charley Harris
Series: Sex, Death, Zombies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2118366
Kudos: 1





	1. M U R D E R

The Governor was having one of those days again. Charley could see it in the set of his mouth, the gleam of his eyes. The way he carried himself in hard and predatory lines. The sweater did little to hide it, apparent in the set of his shoulders, the way his hands moved. Charley didn’t know his name but he knew his moods, when to touch and when to stay away, tucked into a quiet, unassuming corner of the room where he could watch in silence.

Charley knew nothing of the man’s triggers. If these swings happened because he didn’t fuck, or fucked too much. If it was stress. If it was some wrongness buried deep in the grey matter of his brain, resting next to the bomb that waited to go off, reanimating death. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care. Charley had settled into this peculiar co-existence with the Governor for different reasons, and those reasons didn’t include fixing him. Sometimes he brought drugs, drugs that mellowed and stretched out time. He was almost certain they talked then, held conversations beyond the few occasional words they exchanged otherwise, but he couldn’t remember them. It didn’t matter. Charley didn’t love the Governor, he would protect him, but he did not love him. It was selfish, but that carried no weight. Charley didn’t mind being selfish, any more than the Governor seemed to mind being insane.

As Charley watched the man at the desk, the man and his burning mind, he questioned if the Governor would notice his absence if he was gone for more than a few days. Charley doubted it, taking no insult in the fact that he could vanish tomorrow and his entire existence was unlikely to ever cross the Governor’s mind again. It was far more pleasant having the freedom to slip in and out as he chose, untethered, unowned, no keeper, no affiliation, no alliances. If he got bored, he could go, and there would be no one to force him back. He could roam anywhere on the earth without having to look over his shoulder for fear that the Governor and his thin face would be there, grinning savagely, as if he was going to bite.

For now, Charley waited, as patient as a cat waiting for a mouse to peek out of its hole just long enough, just far enough to be caught. On good days, he would curl up against the Governor’s legs under his desk, looping an arm around a skinny calf or resting his head against his thigh, or in his lap. Sometimes he dozed, sometimes he read, listening to the conversations the Governor had with the presumably sane or the shuffling of things on top of the desk. He didn’t stay for the sex - he had no interest in watching the Governor do that, male or female. He would slip away then, unnoticed, returning hours or days later, just as silent. He brought things, sometimes, more than just the drugs. Sweaters, blankets, food, supplies. There was a price for their coexistence and Charley was sure to pay it. He had seen the dead girl before, sometimes he brought things for her, too. The Governor didn’t ask where he had gone, and Charley didn’t ask what he had done in his absence. 

Some nights he slept in the Governor’s bed, curled and woven around him, sharing his warmth. He was a little more affectionate then, but not so much to make it something it wasn’t. Things he just liked to do before falling asleep. Petting his hair - not washed often enough - or nuzzling against his skin. He liked listening to his heart beat, sometimes, as if to affirm the man was alive and not some more vibrant version of the dead. Charley didn’t know if tonight would be one of those nights he would be allowed or not. He didn’t try on days when the Governor was like this and found no outlet. There was a trust he held and he didn’t like to test it’s limits. He’d never hurt the Governor, never lashed out in violence, but that wasn’t to say he wouldn’t if pushed.

Not to say there weren't incidents - the Governor had an iron slap and Charley had felt it’s sting on a few occasions. The most it had ended up in was sulking, or a muttered apology. Anyone else he would have likely bitten, if not outright tried to kill. Not the Governor, who he avoided when violence would have been unfair, and when given was warranted. With the Governor he was willing to accept it - an enraged slap was pittance compared to what he had been subjected to in the past, and barely worth remembering considering what the Governor did to others far more often.

Charley did like watching the Governor handle his business with the lords and ladies and peasants of the colonies. On bad days he would watch from whatever perch he had chosen, gaze going back and forth from man to victim. Even if the Governor didn’t touch them, the subjects were the victims under his stare. His eyes reminded Charley of volcanic glass, dark and cold and hot and deep all at once. Sharp. Burning. Enough to put anyone on edge. If the mood took him, he slipped out from under the desk to watch, curling up somewhere nearby. He liked comparing the emotions of those on the other side to those of the Governor. It was amusing, more often than not. His appearance seemed to only add to the already taunt nerves, singing under the Governor’s gaze.

_ He’s a rescue _ , the Governor sometimes remarked. Sometimes Charley smiled like a Cheshire cat in return, all teeth, no summer in his eyes, before resuming his mild, neutral expression. If the conversations became too tedious he would uncurl, wander off, go to watch the mindless heads in the tanks gnash their teeth senselessly at nothing. Compare their features, and imagine what they had done to infuriate the Governor so much they ended up in there. Maybe he would end up the same way, someday. The thought didn’t bother him maybe as much as it should have.

This habitancy they had - not a relationship, Charley was firm that those were different - wasn’t entirely non-sexual, and yet somehow was. Charley didn’t think of the Governor as a sexual being in the regular sense. The man had his needs and found his releases with others, people, things, whom Charley never paid attention to. So long as they placed no threat on his current position, he didn’t care. The Governor didn’t seem the type to form those sorts of affections, and if he did it would be short lived and end in disaster. Sometimes Charley allowed the Governor to use him, for himself to be used. It was never asked for, never demanded from him, but it happened all the same. If Charley was feeling restless, or bored, or he felt that nervy tensing winding up through the man - he would unzip him, take him out, and suck him off. The Governor was always silent, except for his breathing, and usually rough. Grabbing hold, thrusting down his throat. Charley didn’t mind, it was more expected than anything. The Governor was not the sort who did such things as make love, the Governor fucked. When he was spent, exhausted, Charley put him away and resumed his usual activities, reading or napping against his legs. They didn’t talk about it, Charley preferred it that way. If the Governor ever said thank you, he was liable to be bitten, and that wouldn’t end well for either of them. 

Now, Charley watched the Governor and his black, fevered eyes from a distance. He could leave, but he didn’t want to. He was content to watch, chin resting on his folded arms, as the Governor existed in his own world of insanity. The man was almost pretty, like this. Wound up. Dangerous. Charley watched his upper lip twitch away from his teeth for a moment, his strong, rough hands open and close. He wondered if there would be a heat coming off him, as if the Governor contained a sun. He wanted to touch him - had wanted to touch him since he slipped in that morning, but knew better than to try. He would either have to bide his time and wait for it to pass, to release, or leave and try again some other time. It had been a while since he had stolen anything from the man named Negan and his cult and rabid followers. Consequences of getting caught doing it would be as dire as attempting to approach the Governor now, undoubtedly, no matter how small and nonthreatening he appeared to be. He would have to be patient. Charley wanted to touch his hands, in particular, he wanted to feel the power coming off his fingertips.

There was a knock at the door, a timid knock, and it opened before the Governor could say a word. What came through Charley didn’t like. Some scraggly, half baked looking thing with beady eyes and a pathetic excuse for a beard, patchy and barely grown. There was a cold sore on the stranger’s lip and he was already sweating. Charley looked to the Governor. The man’s attention was locked on the man, an apex predator who had spotted the weak animal in the herd. Charley could smell the fear rolling off the man who had stepped into the lion’s den. Feel the thrum coming off the Governor. 

“Mister Governor.” The stranger swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, “I was wondering if you could-”

There was no scream, no time for it with the way the Governor came over his desk, the thin, sinewy body hidden under his clothes unleashing itself. Charley just saw the glint of the knife in his hand before it was buried in living flesh with a dull thud, another as they hit the floor, locked in an embrace of death. He heard the squelch of it being pulled out. The thud of it going back in. The startled, whining, fearful gurgle. Charley tipped his head, watching as the stranger’s eyes rolled in his head, showing the whites - the Governor’s were vibrant, glittering. Soft hands grabbed at the Governor’s sweater, ineffective, seemingly trying to both push and pull him off. Blood was beginning to bubble and foam from that gaping red mouth. More arched and splattered as the blade was ripped out, plunged in again and again and again. 

It didn’t take as long as it felt it lasted. The Governor crouched, panting, blood dripping from the tip of his knife. It looked as if he was wearing thin, red gloves. The cuffs of his sweater were turning purple. The floor was a mess, the body twitching in the last pathetic attempts to cling to life. Charley watched a moment longer, judging, deciding. It took barely a moment, feeling the weight of the Governor’s stare turning on him as he crossed the floor, barefooted, stepping lightly around and between the splatters and small pools to go to the door and lock it. Back to the body. He stopped not far from the man, sitting on his haunches, resting light on the balls of his feet. Blood arched across Governor’s hard cut face, drops clinging to the hair of his black mustache like rubies. That tension was still there, coiled like a snake in the line of the Governor’s shoulders, heavy in his hands, present in the sound of his breath. 

Charley reached across the dying thing on the floor, curling fine fingers around the Governor’s wrist. Tension, resistance. The Governor could kill him as easily as he had killed anything, snapped his bones like kindling, tearing his flesh until there was nothing more than what lay between them now. He pulled and the Governor only stared, unyielding to the request. Charley was certain that at times, he was little more than a figment of the Governor’s imagination, unreal, the product of a burning, unkind mind. Would he regret killing him? Charley didn’t think so. He would be dead and that would be the end of the memory, cast into the all-consuming abyss of many forgotten things. He moved instead, stepping across the sprawled legs as the soon-to-be corpse gave its last shuddering, helpless, gurgled gasp. Charley kept his eyes locked on the Governor’s - black and burning - as he tipped his head, the pink of his tongue slipping from between his lips to brush over the stained pads of the Governor’s fingers. The man sighed. Ruined and beautiful, deadly and broken, Charley watched as some of that glass-shine lessened in the man’s eyes, the darkest he had ever seen, and full of so many nameless things.

His tongue curled, pulling the man’s finger into his mouth, tasting bitter iron and sucking it away before moving on to the next. Again and again, tongue searching until the Governor’s hand was all but licked clean. Charley’s stomach growled, he was hungry. It wasn’t the Governor he would consume, no more than he would harm him in the ways he had hurt other people, the ways the Governor could hurt him. The body on the floor wouldn’t last much longer, a thing to be addressed. 

Charley took the knife, his gaze finally breaking away. The Governor moved like a predator, causing fear and unease to those who caught the shape of him moving with the shadows. Charley moved in the way silent things moved, things that did not often attack directly but left destruction and rot in their wake. Unassuming and soft with teeth full of venom. He perched now near the head, the ridge of his spine showing through the thin fabric of his shirt. Food was scarce, he often brought what was found to the Governor. It didn’t matter, he didn’t need much to survive as he was, and he would have some soon enough. Charley paid no attention to the Governor, beyond noting that he stood. The knife was sharp and what things lay between, skin and meat and cartilage, parted easily. Charley licked the traces of blood off his lips as he found the joint in the bone of the spine and parted it, a few more cuts and the head freed from the body, leaving it safe. Charley pushed it away, uninterested. If the Governor wanted to add it to his collection that was his business, but for now he had other things to occupy his time. Charley prodded along the chest, the arms, before settling next to a leg. He cut open the fabric, exposing fish-belly skin to be flayed away for what lay beneath. Charley cut away a thin strip of red meat, tipping his head, looking up at the Governor again as the tail of it disappeared into his mouth. He chewed as he looked. No, he didn’t think the Governor partook in meals like this, he readily ate what more typical foods Charley sometimes brought but this seemed less to his liking. Charley cut away more, leaving it to marinate where it came from before he stood, pushing the hilt of the blade back into the Governor’s hand before padding away. He sucked clean his own bloody fingers.

What followed was mostly tedium, but Charley did not like to leave a mess where he ate. A bucket of water and a rag cleaned away the blood, a sheet of plastic kept the body from leaking more. The head was gone, and where it had gone to was none of his concern. Charley ate as he worked, picking strips of meat and chewing in silence as the water turned a muddy red. The Governor was a silent presence, existing, but not concerning. The man had calmed to some extent, enough to be approached, surely. Charley didn’t look to see if he was watching - he was not a pet, not something that needed to be patted and praised and given a treat. He did things that he wanted to do, and nothing more. Once the congealing mess was cleared away he emptied the water, cleaned the rag, and put the things away. He had no intention of moving the corpse. He didn’t kill where he slept, if the Governor wanted the thing to rot there Charley would merely vanish until the stink lessened. 

He returned with a fresh sweater - fresher, at least, there was no blood drying on the cuffs of this one, leaving it on the corner of the desk for the Governor to use or ignore at his leisure. Charley looked at him, gaze trailing over those thin, drying slashes of blood that seemed to only accent the angular lines of his face, the black depths of his eyes. Charley never touched the man’s face. Beyond curling around him at night, for sleep, he scarcely touched him above his waist. Better to leave it. He did not often appreciate being bitten. The Governor did seem more relaxed, at least for the moment. His moods often shifted like spring weather, a clear sky that might suddenly fill with clouds promising destruction. Charley didn’t mind, so long as he got what he wanted. 

Charley sank down, slipping under the desk and curling up against the man’s legs, where he had wanted to be since he first arrived. He rested his head on the Governor’s narrow thigh, content. He closed his eyes, and slept.


	2. H O M E

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charley wants to show Brian he has a place to go if he needs it, the Governor has other ideas.

Fuckin’ thing was staring at him like he had two heads. Sitting down around his legs and just fuckin’ staring. Wasn’t hard to figure out when the stupid thing stared that he wanted something, it never said a damn word, just stared or tugged at him like a dumb puppy begging for a treat. It was starting to wear on the ragged edges of his nerves. Brian’s hands opened, closed, sinewy muscle creaking under the force of his tension. A good smack, that’s what the stupid thing needed. Put it back in his place, stop the _ fuckin’  _ staring.

“What.” His voice was flat, hard. Brian stared back and the thing didn’t even flinch. Just kept lookin’ at him with those dull blue eyes. Nothin’ behind them, clearly, seeing how it couldn’t talk-

“Come with me.” A voice sure wasn’t he was expecting to come out of it, let alone a full sentence with whole words in it, but there was a voice, soft as the feral thing itself, and whole fuckin’ words too. Brian frowned, brow creasing deep. It was chewing at his pants a bit, one sharp tooth scraping lightly at the fabric. 

“I have weed. Good weed,” it added and Brian let out a slow, hissing sigh. Wasn’t like he was scared of the thing. The other stupid blond claimed it bit people, sometimes bit things off people, but it knew better than to try and bite him. He lifted a hand in warning and it quit trying to gnaw a hole in his pants, one cheek resting against his thigh. Staring again.

“Where to, huh?” No, the thing on the floor wouldn’t bite him, and it sure as fuck wouldn’t lie to him either. Brian was confident in that, confident in his position, his power. Confident that he was the one that was feared. He was the Governor, it was at his feet the world groveled. 

“Two clicks east, roughly.” It started chewing on his pants again, Brian’s hand twitched, it stopped. Some kind of piss-irritating nervous tick that was. He’d slap it out of the thing if it got annoying enough. Remind the thing what fuckin’ manners meant. He didn’t let it stay around to be obnoxious. 

“Fine. Fuck.” Brian drawled, shoving his chair back away from his desk and standing. The little thing padded out on bare feet, gone all dead-silent again. It was better, Brian didn’t need it yapping all the way to wherever the fuck it was wanting him to go. Barefooted, moving off quiet as a mouse down the hall, out the door. Brian followed, only because the damn thing was just a little faster than him. It led him out, off through the back areas where people rarely went until it came to the fence. It went up and over, like a fucking monkey. Like fuck he was. Brian went to the gate, waving off the questions, sneering.

The little blonde thing was waiting for him not far off, watching him. Brian didn’t worry about running into a horde out here, alone. Shoving the thing to them and running would be easy enough to do. It made a little gesture for him to follow, stepping off the road and going down a tiny little trail beaten into the ground. How long it’d been coming and going from wherever the fuck it had come from to begin with Brian didn’t much fuckin’ know, but he made a note of it anyways. Just in case the shit went fuckin’ sideways and the thing needed to be put down like a rabid dog.

The humidity seemed to cling to everything, his skin, his clothes, the leaves hanging from the trees as the day went dappled with green shadows. Brian was hissing curses before long, swatting branches away as he followed the silent thing along the trail. It moved like a fucking ghost, barely making a sound, never stopping. Brian started to feel thirst scratching at the back of his throat, his temper rising like a dragon woken from a deep sleep, hungry and pissed off. He was about ready to grab the thing by it’s shoulder and yank it around, demand to know on what wild fuck-all goose chase he had him on when it stopped. Brian nearly ran him, spat and shoved him. 

It cast a look back at him, just for a moment, like maybe it would bite. Instead it reached into a layer of vines clinging to a thick old tree, pulling out a rope and giving it a tug. A ladder, of all the shit Brian might’ve expected to see, dropped from the sky, making him jump and curse again.

“The fuck kinda shit you think this fuckin’ is-”

“People don’t often look up.” It replied in that soft, quiet voice, head tipped back. Brian followed it’s gaze, catching a glimpse of boards hidden among the branches of the tree. “The dead don’t often either.”

“The fuck-”

“Come on.” 

Brian didn’t like being interrupted, especially not from scrawny little fucks but it was already headed up the ladder before he could so much as lift his hand. Much like it went over the wall, up and up and vanishing into those boards. Brian gritted his teeth. Better be some goddamn fuckin’ good weed up there after all this shit. He started climbing, grip right on the worn-smooth rungs. 

The smell of it was immediate, herbal and coying in the little space as Brian managed the final climb into whatever this fuckin’ was. He stood there, glaring at everything. Bundles of drying plants hung from the ceiling, there was a tiny table and chair set to one side, a bucket of what looked like water sitting under it. The walls were lined with shelves, stacked with jars. The thing was on the far side, cross-legged on what must’ve been a bed with some kinda fur on it. A fuckin’ fur! He was the Governor and he didn’t have any fuckin’ furs. Brian’s eyes dropped lower and found the source of the smell - it was rolling a fat blunt on a little board sitting on it’s lap, a loose-lidded jar nearby on an even tinier table. 

It barely looked up, just enough to give another rope a hard yank. The trapdoor Brian had just come through thudded shut, followed by another - probably that fuckin’ ladder. Brian grunted, taking in everything. The supplies. The weapons carefully tucked in a corner, a couple rifles and a bow, ammunition boxes and a quiver of arrows next to them. The bright, shiny stones scattered about. A gentle cross-breeze moved through the place, coming from a pair of glass-less windows on either side of the place, wooden shutters pushed open. A fuckin’  _ honeyhole _ was what this was. Brian licked his lips, savage thoughts filling his head. He reached out, meaning to pick up a fat chunk of a rock, probably expensive as all shit before the dead started shambling around.

“Please don’t touch my things.” That soft voice. Brian turned and looked at it, his expression showing his displeasure plenty in the hard cut of his mouth, the deep furrow in his brow. It was just sitting there, watching him as it smoothed that blunt in it’s fingers.

“This is my home and I have my things the way I like them.” It shifted on the - presumed - bed, patting the area next to it, as if Brian needed a goddamn invitation. He scoffed, sauntering across the little room. King of the fuckin’ castle. King of every fuckin’ castle he stepped into. No feral little creature was going to tell him what to do, he did what he did because he wanted to and that was the end of it. He sat down, half expecting some kind of trap yet. There wasn’t. Was actually pretty comfortable. Fucking little bastard.

It pulled a lighter off a little side shelf, and not one of those cheap fucking things but a full on fucking Zippo and lit the blunt, chasing the tip, warming it up like a fine cigar. Brian watched him take a pull, eyes locked on the glowing tip. That rich, herbal smell intensified and the thing passed it over. Brian might have snatched it but grass of this quality needed a little respect. He pinched the end between two fingers and brought it to his mouth. 

Smooth. Clean. Good fucking shit. 

Brian pulled and held it as the thing was exhaling a sweet cloud. He gave it a couple more seconds before doing the same. The effect was near immediate and fucking heady as shit. Whatever irritation he had been feeling was blanketed under calm. This was the kind of shit he needed when those stupid fucks came stomping into his office, mewling and whining about all kinds of bull he didn’t care about. Like he was just gonna drop everything to bend over backwards when they couldn’t even wipe their own asses without a fucking instruction manual. If he wasn’t around they’d all be no better than a bunch of monkeys, no better than the shambling dead, running around and throwing shit-

“You want some coffee?”

Brian squinted at the thing through the hazy cloud. All at once he was thirsty. Real fucking thirsty. His limbs felt pleasantly heavy. He took another drag on the blunt, not offering it back. Holding it. Letting it out slow. 

“Yeah I want some fuckin’ coffee. Shit.” Brian’s drawl was as thick as the haze in the little cabin now. Sure the breeze going through was working at whisking it away but sure as shit not fast enough. The thing was probably getting stoned as shit on the second hand high. Still it nodded, unfolding it’s legs from the fur-fucking-bed and getting up.

“Don’t you dare fuck that shit up.” Throw it out the fuckin’ window if it did. The thought was funny and he rasped a little giggle. There was some kind of fuckin’ pillows and Brian leaned back against them, smoking, stoned off his fuckin’ gourd. 

The thing was off movin’ around, doing whatever. Brian made the effort to turn his head, finding something that vaguely resembled an ashtray to trap the blunt off on. How long had the thing been keeping this shit from him? He’d smack him for being a little shit if he wasn’t so comfortable. The constant ache in his back was gone. Whole body felt like one of those fucking fluffy clouds. His thoughts were untethered, drifting, mostly unimportant. Simply, Brian didn’t give a single shit about fuck. Time felt loose, stretched and vague. He stared up at a ceiling decorated with constellations, his eyes felt small and tight in his head.

There was a soft thud of something being set down in the area of his head, then the vague, far-away sensation of the blunt being taken from between his fingers. Brian had forgotten it even existed for a moment. He grunted, pushing himself up again with an effort, trying to glare at the thing now taking another slow drag off the well shortened smoke.

“The fuck you doin’?” Brian growled and the thing only shrugged, doing another one of those little gestures that would have been annoying any other time. He turned his head for what felt like an eternity. There is was, a mug of something hot, a glass of fuckin’ water, and some fuckin’ food on a goddamn wooden plate. Little bastard had glasses and mugs but couldn’t find some proper fuckin’ china? 

“The fuck is this.” Brian grunted, reaching for the mug. He stared into it, his brain slowly coming to the conclusion of what it might be. Coffee, black. The thing said something about coffee, hadn’t he? Yeah. Brian gave it a sniff. There was a boozy air to it. It was fucking hot. 

“I didn’t know if you wanted anything in your coffee.” It spoke up again, taking another drag off the blunt before pinching the cherry off in that ashtray looking thing. Brian’s flat, black eyes tracked the movement, coffee mug clenched in one hand.

“You could have fucking asked.” Brian sneered with no real venom behind it. Shit was too fucking hot to drink without burning half his fucking face off. He was stoned but he wasn’t stupid. 

“Do you-”

“No.” There was a savage sort of satisfaction in cutting it off. Something like revenge for being interrupted earlier. It should know better. All this talking coming out of it was fucking weird anyways. It didn’t keep trying, just nodded, sitting at the other end of the bed with its legs tucked up, blowing on another steaming mug. Brian wasn’t about to do that shit. 

“Coffee’s too hot.” Brian snapped and it just stared at him, holding its cup. God, the thing really was stupid, wasn’t it? It could talk but it was stupid as a fucking brick. “I  _ said _ , my coffee is  _ too fucking hot _ .”

Thank fuck it moved. Brian was ready to kick that steamin’ cup of joe all over it when it set it aside, sliding closer and leaning over the bed to pick up  _ his _ cup like it should’ve to begin with. It began blowing on it, cooling it off. Wasn’t fucking staring, either. Good. Brian turned his gaze over to the plate of whatever the fuck it had brought him. Some kind of jerky, fruit, some kind of fucking cracker shit. Brian grunted, taking a slice of jerky and tearing into it, chewing noisily. Wasn’t bad, could be better. He let his eyes roam again, taking in everything. Some settlements didn’t have shit like this. He didn’t have shit like this - and that was the problem. 

“This shit’s mine.” Brian drawled and fuck if the thing didn’t look dumber than ever, confusion settling in those goddamned big eyes, stopping what it was supposed to be doing and that was cooling down  _ his _ fucking coffee.

“What?” Thing was looking at him like he was speaking fucking French. Brian sat up, feeling that heady, rich pleasure when it shrank back. Everything felt calm and amplified all at once. It wasn’t kidding when it said the weed was good. He raised a hand and watched it flinch. 

“ _ All this shit. _ ” Brian drawled, extra slow, like he was talking to something particularly stupid. “Is  _ mine _ . Now give me my fuckin’ coffee.”


	3. P A I N

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Charley struggles with change, he makes a dangerous mistake.

Again, yet different from the last. Different from when the Governor moved like something that wanted to kill, that waited to kill, that did kill. Maybe things were changing. Not for the Governor, no, but for him. It made Charley uneasy, made him nervous. He did not like changes. Changes were threats, unstoppable, uncontrollable. Nothing about the Governor was controlled, or could be controlled. This change was all within himself, it put him on edge. 

Still he came in silence, and watched in silence. Watched the strange way the Governor’s hand twitched. The damp sweat clinging to his pale skin. The way his eyes moved, bright, as if the man was gripped in a fever. Charley was sure if he touched him his skin would be burning, and not with a sickness that could be cured. The Governor could not be controlled, and he could not be cured of what clawed at him. Charley shifted, curling tighter in on himself, as if it would drive away what now clawed at him. 

_ I am not here to fix him. I am not here to cure him. I am here for myself. _

Then why had he taken the Governor to his home? Now laid bare after the man’s demands, restocking slow as he traveled to his caches for supplies laid aside for different circumstances. It should have bothered him, yet it didn’t. In a way he wanted to give the Governor the things he wanted, something he had never wanted for anyone else. It did not help, nothing would help a man like the Governor. Charley watched as he twitched, muttering under his breath, scratching at his arms hidden under the thick fabric of his sweater. Charley could see a vein pulsing in his neck, moving in time with a frantic heart. Scratch-scratch at his arms. Sitting, standing, pacing. The Governor’s teeth flashed in a savage smile meant only for himself. 

Changes within himself. He tried to lay them bare as his eyes tracked the Governor’s movements. It was dark in here. Dim. Fetid. On some level Charley thought the man was aware of his presence. But he was distracting himself again, wanting to focus on things that were easy to focus, rather than what was not. Changes - paranoia, was one. He had brought the Governor to his home, where he would have retreated if the sense had come to his sooner. It would be easy to find him now, if it was wanted. Charley had thought before that the Governor would not notice his absence, but then he had the confidence that he would not be found. Now that was gone, he had exposed himself, and the confidence was gone. He could not even pretend to be falsely so. Building his home had been dangerous, building another would be just as so. It would take time, time that may or may not be noticed. 

The Governor laughed softly to himself, then snarled, there was a low sob. Charley watched, silent.

The Governor tugged at his sleeves, hands snapping open and shut as he paced back and forth across the floor, head bowed, lank hair hanging in his face. Charley frowned. He wanted to make him stop, and that was another change. He had never wanted to make the Governor stop anything, unless it was moving when he was napping against his legs. Yet he wanted to make him stop. Wanted to make him...sit and calm, or maybe kill. Let that hot, fevered sickness escape for a while. He wanted him to stop and it was new. A change. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t move. To move would be death now, the time to leave had passed, just as the time to disappear had evaporated the moment he pulled the ladder down and invited the Governor into his home. 

Wanted to make him stop. Couldn’t make him stop. Something felt sick, twisted and heavy in his gut as the Governor burned and raged within himself. A flash of teeth, a curse, a sob. Charley closed his eyes for a moment, willing these things - these feelings, these changes - inside of him to go away. It only served to amplify, goaded on by the sounds of a man on fire within his own mind. 

The shift of a drawer, the clatter of something metallic inside. Charley’s eyes snapped open, sharp and watching. Old fears and old scars still ached inside him, on his skin. He knew that sound. The edge of it caught what little light seeped feebly in through the blackened windows, glinting as a diamond might shimmer in the darkness. The heavy sound, the creek and thump of the Governor collapsing down on the lumpy, sunky mattress. Charley could hear his ragged breathing, shuddering and rasping. He watched the Governor drag the sleeve of his sweater up, and drag the sharp edge of the knife down his skin drawing a line in red.

“No.”

He didn’t speak often and the loudness of his own voice was startling. Charley moved, unfolding from the place he had chosen - out of the way, in the shadows, unnoticed - standing, crossing the floor. He tried to pull the Governor’s hand away - the hand holding that thing, that sharp and hateful thing, but the man only pushed him away to draw another red line on fishbelly skin. 

“Stop.”

That sick thing was heavier, weighing in his stomach like lead. The Governor was beyond hearing, beyond the world, gone inside the maw of his own monster. Charley’s hands curled into fists. Sickness. Fear. Hatred. Rage. He dropped to his knees and sank his teeth just below the meat of the hand holding everything that terrified him. 

Time held its breath, and Charley tasted the Governor’s sickness on his tongue, the metallic tang of his blood a coying undertone to the sour salt of it. That sharp thing dropped, clanging on the floor, and time released the breath held in her throat. 

Teeth released, pulling away from pale skin. Charley could feel the Governor’s black eyes on him, sharp and hard as broken onyx. He didn’t look up. He didn’t dare to, pushing back on the floor just a bit. 

“I- I’m-”

The hit stopped any more hope of apology, rocking him back, throwing him to the floor. Charley’s ear rang, the taste of fresh blood in his mouth. The Governor had hit him before, but never so hard. Never so brutal. 

“Governor-”

The kick caught him next, in the belly, knocking what was left of his wind. One, and then another, and another. Charley curled up in a pathetic attempt to protect himself when the Governor gripped his hair. The man was thin but his hands were iron. Charley caught a glimpse of those eyes, dark, burning with unnamed things before he saw stars, bright and shining as the fist connected. Charley didn’t count, he didn’t try, letting the blows land again and again and again until he was thrown, kicked. His back hit something, and he heard a crash follow. Did he break something? The Governor would be upset. Charley tried to pick himself up, drooling blood when the Governor’s boot connected with his chest, throwing him back to the floor. On the third, or maybe the four, he felt -  _ heard _ \- something crack, eliciting a low cry of pain. Everything hurt, everything hurt and the pain wasn’t stopping. There was the crash of a door being ripped open and the light blinded him in it’s suddenness. 

Another kick. A punch. A snarl. Fingers tearing at his hair, dragging. Charley was panting, every strike pulling low, involuntary yelps of pain as he trailed blood. Another harsh, unforgiving kick and then it stopped - it stopped but he was flying, and falling. The stairs were hard and just as unforgiving as the Governor’s fists and boots. He tumbled until he crashed, heaped against the wall at the bottom. 

He was on fire but he could not move, he could barely breathe. Eyes closed he could only listen to the faint, heavy, methodical thuds of the Governor coming down the stairs. There was nothing he could do but wait, wait and accept the inevitable. 

  
That iron grip was in his hair again, pulling his head up, forcing him to look. One eye was swelling shut, but the other was still open. Still seeing. That harsh gleam in the Governor’s eye, the way his lips were peeled back from his teeth, the fine spray of blood, droplets caught like rubies in his mustache. 

“Get yer fuckin’ ass back up stairs _ right now _ .”

Charley whimpered and his head slammed against the wall, sending more of those unwanted shooting stars. The Governor straightened up and he followed, if only to try and stop the searing pain in his scalp. He half crawled, no choice but to follow the drag. He was the one on fire now, body burning, bleeding and abused. They reached the top but the Governor kept going, kept dragging, his grip relentless. Charley moaned in fear and pain, he didn’t want to die in there, in the darkness. A sharp yank shut him up and he followed like a puppy whipped with brutality into obedience. 

The Governor released him, another kick followed, sending him back into a heap on the floor. He was standing over him, black against the rectangle of light in the doorway. All Charley could do was shake, trying not to cry. He had to be a good boy. He couldn’t cry. 

“G-Gov-”

“Shut up.” Charley did. The Governor licked his teeth, staring down at him. 

“Get yourself cleaned up. And get to the fuckin’ office.”

The door slammed shut and Charley trembled.


End file.
